


Lobster Tail

by WinsomeEarl



Category: Kid Cosmic (Cartoon)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, M/M, Papa G finds a pair of randy severed legs running around the desert, UP TO HERE, but also sexy???, just clinical and awkward, papa g has had it up to here with this space man, warning: this fic is nasty, weird alien junk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29606250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinsomeEarl/pseuds/WinsomeEarl
Summary: Papa G runs into a familiar pair of legs while combing the desert, and decides to return them to their rightful owner. Chuck doesn't appreciate the gesture as much as he had hoped.
Relationships: Stuck Chuck/Papa G
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33





	Lobster Tail

Papa G is out in the desert searching for more invaluable discarded items to make yard art with when, through the haze rising off the golden sand, he sees a rather short figure in the distance, shambling in his direction. He holds a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun and squints at the approaching stranger. Could it be a kid? he wonders to himself. No one should be out this far in the desert on their own! Except him, of course, but he can create any amount of assistance for himself with the snap of his fingers, if need be. As the figure moves closer, he notices they're moving at quite a speed, stopping every so often to crouch down, skitter slightly in another direction, lose their balance momentarily, and then keep on moving rather quickly in his direction. 

Once they're about 10 meters in front of him, Papa G realizes with a mild start that the figure isn't a person at all. Well, not a whole person, anyway. The thing walking through the desert heat towards him is not a human being, but instead, a pair of sunburned, disembodied legs with the remnants of what may have once been a pair of pants clinging to them. Papa G's eyebrows raise in confusion. He's sure he didn't smoke that much before leaving the house. Looking closer at the legs, he recalls a certain red, legless alien that's taken up a residence in Kid's trailer. Though his boots remain intact, most of his pants have been torn off, presumably from wandering about the desert. All that's left is a bit of gray material wrapped around his left calf and the part attached to his belt, which hangs down like a tattered skirt on one side and remains wrapped around his thigh on the other. There's also what appears to be dark magenta blood stains baked into the grey fabric.

"Hey there, little legs!" Papa G calls out, and the two disembodied limbs crouch down into what can only be described as an attack stance, as close to the ground as possible. Papa G briefly wonders how, in the absence of ears, the legs still manage to detect his presence. Must be from the vibrations of my voice, he decides. Just like a snake, he thinks with a smile, getting low down to the sand to better sense the minute soundwaves rumbling through it. The similarities between Charles and a snake are endearing to G as he thinks of them; two scaly, seemingly ornery creatures prone to violence and foreign to the most simple of human conventions, yet they somehow managed to get along somehow. By this point, the legs have managed to straighten themselves out and have completely closed the distance between themselves and G. In fact, they seem to be repeatedly trying to bump themselves into his own legs, as if upset that he's standing in their way, but also unwilling to make the effort to walk around him.

Papa G lets out a breathy laugh.

"You looking for the rest of your body, little legs?"

One of the legs lifts itself up and nudges its foot experimentally against Papa G's calf. Finding something solid there, it draws back shoves him in the thigh much more forcefully, as if trying to knock him onto the floor and out of his way. 

"Hey now, none of that!" Papa G calls out and takes a step back, causing the legs to momentarily lose their balance and stumble forwards. "No need to be hostile; I'll lead you to your other half in a jiffy!"

Papa G takes another step back, and the legs take a step forward. Papa G lets out a laugh.

"Just follow me, and you'll be reunited with your buddy in no time!"

"Hello Charles!" Papa G greets as he opens the door to kid's trailer, alien legs in tow. The washing machine hums away in the corner, tumbling it's contents with reckless abandon.

"Hello, geriatric worm who's holding me hostage," Chuck answers, chin propped lazily on one palm, elbow leaning on a blanket on the floor, not bothering to look up from the comic he's reading.

"Looks like you've got a guest!" Papa G continued, unperturbed by Chuck's clipped tone. Papa G notices Chuck's brow crease for a moment, clearly weighing his curiosity against his desire to seem uninterested. Finally, he relents.

Chuck glances at the legs for a moment, which have began bumping themselves eagerly against his knees again, and then back at Papa G. The disinterest in his eyes is palpable.

"Oh," Chuck remarks with mock surprise, "I see humans have learned the ability to gloat."

"Gloat?" Papa G repeats, lost for a moment, "Er, ah, no! I didn't bring these here to gloat. They were out in the desert looking for you! I thought if I brought them back you'd be able to reattach yourself, or... or maybe regenerate-"

Papa G is cut off by Chucks derisive laughter. One of the legs has managed to wind itself in between and behind G's, and is trying to use the leverage to knock him down.

"Reattach?" Chuck bites out sarcastically, "What do you think I am, a starfish?"

Papa G thinks for a moment.

"Well, starfish can't actually reattach their limbs, that's a common myth, but-"

Chuck scoffs. 

"Not Earth starfish, you troglodyte," Chuck jabs a pointy finger in Papa G's direction "Which aren't even fish, by the way. Great job, humanity! You can't even correctly identify the species on your own planet, let alone your own Solar System! It's no wonder you've had no interplanetary visitors before now. They're probably all scared you'd mistake them for some rare lizard or bird and put them in a zoo. I'm talking about the subterranean ice star fish of Enceladus. Seriously, this is grade school xenobiology. You know, they live on Saturn's sixth largest moon? They have no eyes and get all their nutrients from hydrothermal vents because your lousy white sun doesn't even have the starpower to..." 

Chuck, who had returned to leafing through his comic book, trails off once he glances up at Papa G once more and sees the look of startled confusion written plain on his face. If Papa G had at one point been following the thread of his monologue, he had surely lost track of it by now.

Chuck smacks his palm against his forehead in frustration.

"Why am I telling you this?" he asks aloud, more to himself than to his captive audience.

"Like trying to explain a plasma propulsion engine to an Earth star fish," he mutters beneath his breath, or as well as he can with a device translating his every word, and with that returns to analyzing the brightly colored pages in front of him, now convinced that any attention paid to the old one was a waste of time and energy. 

"Then I wonder why they were following me around the desert," Papa G pipes up at last, one hand stroking his considerable beard.

Chuck shrugs.

"Probably just enjoyed annoying you," he pauses to look up at his wayward limbs, which have begun to rub the sole of one boot against Papa G's pants "Like flicking salt at a slug." 

Chuck's apathetic expression quickly morphs into one of confusion as his gazes settles on the crook of the severed legs. His eyes narrow.

"What is that?" 

G's eyes slide down to where Chuck is staring, even if it makes him feel a bit rude. Sure enough, he notices two long, thin feelers, not unsimilar to Chuck's antennae, poking out from the hole in the fabric. They curved upwards and landed where his iliac crest would be if he were human. Chuck leans forward on his hands to get a better look, making no effort to disguise his curiosity this time. He stares for a moment as G tries his best to look anywhere but.

"Move those scraps out of the way so I can get a better look at it," Chuck says in a commanding tone with a flourish of his hand, not bothering to spare a glance at G when he does. G swallows, heat creeping into his face like a teenager.

"Are you sure about that?" he asks weakly, hesitant now to even be near the unruly limbs.

"I'm always sure," Chuck snaps back at him, "Now do as I say, grub!"

Following orders, G reaches down and pulls the tattered hem to the side with his fingers. If Chuck could tell what he was thinking, he knows he'd probably slap him, or use his blaster on him or worse. As it is, with the fabric out of the way, G can now see a pair of small antennae slanting upwards on either side of Chuck's hips, and between them, a raised mound bisected by a small horizontal slit, which appears to be where all the magenta stains in Chuck's pants are coming from. Chuck's hips try to follow his hand at the slight touch, but he quickly pulls away. 

Though G is far too preoccupied to notice, realization suddenly dawns on Chuck's face.

"Oh, I've seen this before." Chuck snaps his fingers in realization.

"Well, I should hope so," G mutters to himself, and if Chuck hears him, he doesn't acknowledge it.

"I though you said your species didn't have anything interesting below the belt?" G continues in a louder tone.

Chuck rolls his eyes.

"You call that mindless sack of impulses interesting?" He scoffs, before adding in explanation, "I mean, we usually don't. What you're seeing there is just a vestigial organ. It breaks through the skin sometimes if the legs are separated from the rest of the body, and the inferior brains kick in. No one really knows what it's purpose used to be, but the working theory is that it used to function as a secondary mouth. It's there in case the legs get separated from the rest of the body, that way they can continue to feed themselves. Some crackpots even believe that the secondary brains down there used to be telekinetic. Can you believe that? Having a mental conversation with a leg? Ridiculous!"

Seeming to sense that they're the center of attention, the legs begin to double their effort in trying to either climb onto G or knock him down. G looks at Chuck with amused disbelief on his face.

"That sure doesn't look like any mouth I've ever seen," G laughs, and then with mock seriousness says, "Chuck, are you secretly a girl?

Chuck's brow creases.

"If by girl, you mean a pathetic, infantile, female member of your species, then no, I am not a girl," Chuck says with derision, "And if it's not a mouth, than what is it?" Chuck asks, as if the very question is redundant. 

G scratches his cheek with one finger and avoids Chuck's eyes.

"I assure you it's not a mouth." G says, "In fact, I'm pretty sure that's a... a... well, I don't want to be crass about this..."

"Spit it out, old man."

"Well. A beaver!"

Chuck squints.

"A what?"

"You know, like a," G makes a diamond shape with his fingers, "Like a hoo ha?"

Chuck scowls.

"Are you having a stroke?"

G chuckles in spite of himself.

"Charles, where did you come from?"

Chuck looks taken aback by the sudden change of subject, but decides to bite anyway.

"The Klaxian Empire," Chuck says simply, crossing his arms, "You know, space? We already went over this. It was a whole thing. You guys tried to kill me. Remember?

"No, Charles, I mean," G falters, looking for the right word, "At one point, you didn't exist, right?"

Chuck's brow has become creased again, and his antennae have lowered in thought.

"That's... right," he acknowledges slowly, clearly hesitant to admit that a member of such an inferior species could be correct about anything.

"So at one point, you didn't exist, but now you do! For that to happen, you had to be born from somewhere!"

"Spawned," Chuck corrects him quickly.

"What?" G interjects.

"I was spawned," Chuck repeats, seemingly bored again, "Not born."

"Alright," G responds, "Kinda seems like semantics, but who spawned you?"

Chuck pulls a face like he's been both disgusted and disrespected simultaneously.

"In vitro facilities haven't been operated by organic life forms for thousands of cycles. I wasn't spawned by anybody."

Chuck seems to think for a moment.

"Unless you consider a semi autonomous AI to be 'somebody' which, call me old fashioned, but I don't."

G stares up at the ceiling of the RV. This certainly throws a wrench in the works.

"Well, Charles, here on Earth, humans, ah, have to use their bodies to make new humans. No machines required. And I'm pretty sure that's the type of body part we're dealing with here."

Chuck throws his hands up in the air.

"And if I recall correctly, I'm not a disgusting human!"

"Well tell me this, wise guy, how did your species make babies before they had machines to do it for them?"

Chuck looks down for a moment.

"Well, probably not like that," he mutters, "I mean, we're from opposite sides of the galaxy. What are the chances that your way and my way would be the same?" 

G shrugs.

"It's just convergent evolution." he says by way of explanation, "When something works, nature sticks with it. We both stand on two legs, have two arms, two opposable thumbs, and two forward facing eyes. It only makes sense that we'd be the same below the belt as well."

Chuck seems to seriously consider this for a second.

"Hmm. The thought had never occurred to me, but you might be right. I always knew your race was inferior, but I never could have known it was by so much! It seems you worms are a whole wrung lower than us on the evolutionary scale. Not only are you dumber, weaker, and slower than us, you still rely on fickle biological means for replication."

"You know Charles, for humans it isn't just about... replication."

Chuck blinks at him with doubt.

"Is it a food source too?" he bites back with sarcasm.

"Well, nothing like that. It's more like... for some humans, it's kind of fun. Or, for some others, it's a way to express how you feel to someone else. It can be an exercise in trust; a way to feel close to someone..."

Chuck blows a raspberry in response to this.

"Pathetic." he moans, arms crossed over his chest.

G chuckles at his outburst.

"Fair enough," he shrugs.

G's curiosity gets the better of him and he reaches out a hand, as if to touch the legs, before quickly catching himself.

"Do you mind if I..." G trails off, hand hovering over the hole in Chuck's tattered uniform pants. 

Chuck rolls his eyes.

"Be my guest. It's not like I can feel them anymore."

G picks the pair on legs up by the hips and sets them on top of the washing machine to get a better look. Chuck let's out a shocked noise behind him, as the legs kick out and wrap around G's waist. G looks at him with worry.

"You alright, Charles?"

Chuck is wearing an odd expression on his face.

"Yes," he grinds out.

"Do you want me to stop?" G asks lightly.

Chuck shrugs, feigning indifference.

"I don't see what difference that would make."

G exhales through his nose, and brings one thumb to trace over the raised mound in front of him. From behind him, G can hear Chuck's breath catch in his throat. Magenta ooze coats the tip of his finger, and G notices that the tips of the feelers have taken on a darker shade than before.

"Charles?" G calls, and receives no answer.

He decides to try again.

"Charles, do you feel that?"

G looks back at this point just to see that Chuck has squeezed his eyes shut.

"Maybe."

G pulls his hand away in dismay.

"You sure you don't want me to stop, pal?"

Chuck draws back, eyes open once more, and hisses at him.

"Stop asking me that!" he seethes, pulling on his antennae in frustration, "We're doing an experiment! How am I supposed to come to any conclusions if you keep losing your nerve?"

"Of course." G soothes, bringing his hands back up, "You're the boss, pal." 

G circles one finger lightly over the horizontal slit. His immediate instinct is to ask Chuck if he has permission to proceed, but he knows now that asking Chuck anything is like pulling teeth. Instead, he pushes on and slowly eases his pointer finger in, inch by inch, until it's seated at the knuckle. Thankfully, he's met with little resistance.

"Anything you'd like to report, Charles?" G ventures.

"Hmm," Chuck thinks for a moment, his eyes drifted shut, "It feels like I have a sneeze building up except... it's in my guts."

G raises his eyebrows. 

"Never heard it described that way before." 

Chuck sighs.

"Tell me, George," he pipes up in a jarringly casual tone, "If it's not a mouth, then why does it have teeth inside?"

With that, G feels a ring of needle sharp protrusions bite into the tip of his finger all at once, anchoring him in place.

"Dadgummit!" He cries, more from surprise than from pain, and feels something akin to numbness seeping up his finger and into his arm. 

Chuck let's out a single sardonic laugh.

"I knew that was going to happen," he gloats, "That's what you get for sticking your claws into random holes, you moron. Didn't your leader teach you anything?"

G feels that same odd numbness slipping up his neck and into his brain. When it gets there, he feels woozy an lightheaded, but in a way that makes him momentarily forget everything he's ever worried about.

"Charles," he puts on his best scolding tone, "What did you just stick me with?"

"Well, I've got a venom sac down there so probably," Chuck pauses, as if in thought, "venom?"

G knows he should probably be worried about that, but he can't seem to make himself care. Chuck's insides have begun to suck at the skin of his finger in a way that seems oddly pleasant to his slightly addled brain. 

"It's the same one I've got in my mouth, but since you haven't passed out already, I'm guessing you only got a low dose."

G feels the pressure tightening around his knuckle before sliding in waves down to his finger tip, over and over. By this point, Chuck is leaning back on his hands with his head slumped down in front of him. G can see his chest rising and falling with each labored breath and realizes with a start that his pincers are moving, likely muttering something under his breath in his home language, and he's rocking back and forth ever so slightly. The legs around his waist have tightened to the point where he's sure he'll have bruising on his ribs tomorrow morning, but he can't see it as anything but a compliment. He uses his other hand to tug idly at one of the feelers arching up towards Chuck's hips, and the legs around his waist reward him with a series of surprised jolts. With that, Chuck gasps aloud and tumbles back onto the floor with a thump. G notices with a slight thrill that Chuck is now unabashedly squirming on the floor with his eyes screwed shut, alternating between pulling on his antennae, gripping at his shirt, and fisting his hands in the blanket on the floor. He's muttering something under his breath with every intake of air, shuddering and arching and tilting his head back and rolling it from side to side on the blanket. I've still got it, G thinks to himself, with a small smile and more than an ounce of fondness blooming in his chest. Suddenly, Chuck's eyes shoot open once more with a gasp. 

"George, I'm getting close to something!" he keens, in a voice which strains his translator.

"Already?" G asks incredulously.

"I'm getting close to a breakthrough! A revelation!" Chuck cries out. "Imagine my leader's shock when I tell him that Inter-sensory perception theory is true! Imagine the military applications! I could get a research grant! I could be promoted to a tactical engineer! I could-"

Chuck lets out a startled sob and arches one last time and the pressure around G's finger becomes impossibly tight before Chuck collapses bonelessly onto the blanket. All G can hear from the floor is Chuck's uneven breathing, as the legs around his waist release their grip on his frame and drop with a thump against the metal side of the washing machine. The thigh to his right gives a few final twitches before stilling completely. G notices with considerable relief that the ring of thorns that had once imprisoned his finger has thankfully now retracted back into it's hiding place, and his hand is free once more. He also notices that there's a sticky trail of pink ooze sliding its way down the white enamel side of the machine, but decides he'll worry about that later. 

"Superior race, my foot." G mumbles as he wipes his soiled fingers on his smock, leaning back from the washing machine for the first time. On the floor, Chuck's breathing seems to have calmed down a bit. G watches him, lost in thought, wondering if he's fallen asleep, or if he's even capable of such a thing. A sudden shove from in front of him rouses him from his pleasant thoughts and he notices that the legs have righted themselves on the ground and are now stumbling their way out of the unlocked door of the trailer. Chuck lifts his head up at the sound, just to see the limbs lumbering several feet away before beginning to kick a shallow hole into the sand. When it deems it's makeshift pit is complete, the legs settle down until they're seated directly on the small chasm and remain there for a few moments. After that, they stumble back onto their feet, use their boots to shuffle some sand into the hole, and then take off back in the direction of the desert.

"George, quick!" Chuck suddenly pipes up from the ground, slouching upright once more, "That thing just laid parasites, you have to go out and smash them before its too late!"

With that, Chuck grabs a nearby shovel off the wall and tosses it to G, who catches it with ease, before rushing out of the trailer in a fright and really giving that sand pile what for. G wipes his brow after the ordeal, and then walks slowly back into the trailer. When he reaches the doorway, he spares a disapproving glance at Chuck, who's giving him the closest approximation to a smug smile that someone with mandibles can hope for. 

"Charles, I understand that customs are different where you come from, but you really should have told me that you have space parasites before we did that."

Chuck's expression drops into a frown.

"I don't have parasites." he quickly counters, "My legs did. And I didn't even know until they laid those eggs outside."

G squints his eyes shut at the word 'eggs'.

"Charles?"

"Yes, George?"

"Did you just send me out with a shovel to mash up a bunch of parasites, or your own tadpoles?"

Chuck leans forward so he's cupping his own cheeks in his hands, and smiles innocently up in G's direction. 

"What's the difference?" he whispers.

Chuck doesn't get to say much more after that, because at the moment he's feeling the full brunt of the shovel which Papa G has lobbed at his head. He shouts in surprise at the unexpected impact.

"What, wrong answer?" he chimes, undeterred, as he rubs at the new dent in the side of his head.

"Boy, you are incorrigible!" G chides, and shakes his head, "Next time, we're keeping them."

Chuck scoffs with surprise.

"Next time?" he laughs, "Have fun wandering the desert looking for my legs again, old man."

"Don't you 'old man' me, you Martian!"

Chuck gasps in mock offense, as a soft, wadded up hand towel thumps into his chest.

"Now help me clean up this trailer before Kid comes back!"

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the fastest I've ever written anything. I binge watched the first eight episodes of Kid Cosmic last night, and wrote this today starting at 4pm and ending at 6am. I spent a good amount of that time wondering if Chuck was more similar to a bug (because of the mandibles) or more similar to a sea creature (due to the gills) before I remembered that he's literally called Lobster Boy multiple times throughout the series, which is good because a lobster is basically a sea bug. Also shout out to Slitherbop on tumblr for making me a) ship this b) watch Kid Cosmic and c) subject you all to this trash, in that order. This fic is considerably nastier than their sweet, sweet art however, so I'm not sure they'd like what I've done.


End file.
